


Summer Dreaming

by RussianWitch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Dom/sub Undertones, Introspection, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Referenced anal, Sexual Fantasy, referenced oral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 22:05:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6059773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's fantasy on a summer afternoon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd

Getting used to 'normal' takes some work.

He doesn't even remember how really, he isn't like all the people he meets on the street any longer. Small steps work: joining a gym and playing chess in the park. Rubbing elbows with the detectives and of course Finch.

Finch, who doesn't socialize, at least not with John but somehow still manages to be the person John spends the most time with. Chipping even the smallest shard off of Finch's walls always seems like a bigger victory than stopping a terrorist attack. John isn't exactly sure why getting close to Finch has become something to aspire to, something he wants.

After finding out Jessica was dead, John didn't think he'd ever want to form any kind of attachment to another human being ever again. Only there Finch is, inexplicably tempting for all of his seeming disinterest in anything except his crusade, tea and first editions. John can't help thinking about more than the companionship offered by a voice in his ear, and a mission in life. He doesn't during the day time or when he's on the job, but late at night in the too big bed his thought stray.

John thinks about seducing the reclusive millionaire, drawing Harold away from his computers to the ratty couch in the library or to the apartment he'd been gifted with, under some pretext. He'd crowd Harold into a corner and lick the protests out of his mouth until Harold stops trying to talk him out of it or tells him 'no' outright. Otherwise John will busy himself with stripping Harold out of his clothing, familiarizing himself with the genius' body scars and all until Harold is hard and wet for him eager to come.

Harold might be stuttering and babbling by then, or snapping orders at him: John really doesn't care as long as he gets to touch. He's been itching to touch almost since the very beginning, getting jealous of Bear's ability to shamelessly demand Harold's attention and the casual way in which he gets it of late. Harold has developed the habit of petting Bear while thinking, and John has occasionally entertained the thought of pushing the dog aside and taking his place to see how long it would take Harold to notice the switch.

Kneeling at Harold's side, thinking about it has him pushing his sweats down to feel the cool air on his dick. The slight breeze from the open window sends a pleasant shiver running through John's body. He spends a long moment deciding between getting himself off at once, and drawing things out: it's been a long time since he's indulged, so John refrains from touching his dick kicking his sweats off instead to keep them from getting in the way.

Bare, he reaches up  grabbing the headboard, lets his legs fall open: lets the air currents tease his body. In the library, he'd have goose bumps already from the chill the building hold even in the middle of summer, bits of dirt would be digging into his legs from kneeling on the not quit clean floor. Harold's hands are soft, his touch in his hair would be light, almost soft enough to be a woman's touch only not exactly because Harold has more strength than he lets on. If he concentrates, John would be able to feel the slight calluses and the scars Harold's has on his fingers from tinkering with the innards of computers and other machinery. Harold would pet him, slow and exacting, hand getting heavier on John's head until it's digging in just right: nails scratching through his hair down to the back of his neck, rubbing at the soft spot at the back of John's skull.

John would never let anyone else that close, Harold he'd lets press his thumb into the soft spot where a murderer would push a knife and even lean into the touch or maybe bend his head bearing his neck. He could lean against Harold's leg, rest his head on Harold's thigh and just breathe the scent of him. From that position it would be easy to discover if Harold had actually noticed and was allowing John to indulge, or if the genius was too absorbed in whatever he was doing to notice.  Of course Harold would noticed, he's noticed John following him when he'd been doing his best not to be noticed, having John kneel next to him shouldn't be that hard.

His dick is hard enough to arch against his abdomen just from thinking about Harold and tracing random patterns along his chest and abdomen. The hair on his body has risen, sweat beads on his skin from the heat and arousal making him hypersensitive to every sensation. His hands itch to touch his dick, but he keeps resisting the urge grabbing hold of the headboard again.

John pulls up his knees, exposes himself to the world, maybe even to Harold if the genius is watching. He's never bothered to check if there are any cameras in the apartment, doesn't care if Harold looks in on him or not. If he's truthful with himself: John wants, Harold can watch.

John wants him to touch too: wants Harold to guide his mouth to the bulge between his legs and allow John to nuzzle at the wool and trace the contours of the flesh under it with his lips. John decides he'd like to stay like that until Harold prompts him to do more. John would be more than happy to just kneel there getting petted and breathing Harold's scent. Maybe if he keeps it up long enough, Harold would free himself from his trousers and guide his dick into John's mouth.

 John deliberately avoids thinking about anything but his fantasy, and the way his body feels here in the airy, hot apartment safe behind anonymity and securely locked doors. Finally giving into temptation he reaches down stroking his inner thighs, back up to circle his navel still avoiding his throbbing dick. Scratching his chest, John imagines the weight of Harold's dick in his mouth, how the warm flesh would fill his mouth and the sensation of a vein throbbing against his tongue. Harold would taste clean: male, dusts, tea, maybe something that will come as a surprise if he ever gets the chance to experience this in real life. It would be up to Harold to decide if John gets his face fucked or if he will be sucking, nursing on the flesh filling his mouth until Harold finds his release.

Of course, Harold might not be interested in that, or incapable of it for all Reese knows, that doesn't mean they wouldn't be able to enjoy each other in other ways. Touch is a powerful thing even avoiding the realm of the sexual. John would be more than fine with simple touching: skin on skin contact that would remind him he isn't alone. Harold's hands directing him to give and take until he is sated, until they are both sated. He'd be just as happy to massage Harold's back: to take away his pain as to suck his dick and give the genius pleasure. John imagines himself curling around Harold for the night to keep the man safe and warm, to keep himself from dreaming.

John closes his hand around his balls, squeezes them a little and pulls on the sack until it hurts just enough. Pain is nature's way to warn a man he's pushing it: that what he's about to do is not smart. It is a warning he's been taught to ignore, something Harold doesn't approve of for some reason. John doesn't like Harold worrying, but at the same time he likes it a lot because if Harold worries it means he cares. Maybe it's not in the way John wants Harold to care: not just caring for the well being for a high functioning asset, but caring for a person as well—a partner. John thumbs his nipples as he thinks, pinches and pulls sensitizing the nubs until every touch stings, makes him want more. He wonders if Harold would enjoy touching him in this way as well. Maybe he would even put his mouth on John's chest, suck a nipple into his mouth to tease with teeth and tongue until John can't breathe from the pleasure of it. His dick drips at the thought, the head glistening, slick with sweat and pre-come but John still doesn't want to touch himself yet. He scratches across his inner thighs, brushes his balls to the side and rubs across his taint and down to his anus.

His fingers circle the muscle feeling it tighten, then relax under the steady rubbing. John can't even remember the last time he'd wanted this: he's given too much of himself, closed off too much, to allow anyone entry into his body in this way easily. Kind of a novelty to realize that with Harold, he's actually looking forward to this act he'd always been ambivalent about.

Harold would be careful with him, would take his time opening him up, making sure that John enjoyed himself. He'd probably be careful even if John demanded Harold make it hurt. Perhaps Harold would let himself be persuaded to hurt John— eventually once he'd analyzed and quantified their new relationship, the configuration of them. John could just lie back and enjoy himself, take Harold into himself and give them both pleasure, submit to Harold's desires. He could touch Harold in return, get to know the man's body when it isn't hidden by multiple layers of expensive fabric. John really likes that idea: no matter the scars, and whatever else he finds it would still be Harold. That is what would matter: the skin to skin connection between them.

The need becoming too much, John rolls across the bed closer to the bedside cabinet to rummage in the drawer for lube. Fingers coated in the slippery substance, he doesn't bother to return to his previous position, just reaches back and probes at his opening blindly. Thinking about Harold makes it feel less of an intrusion and more like a caress. He works himself open further until he can fit two fingers and his wrist is starting to cramp demanding a change of position. Cursing he flops onto his back again, giving his wrist a break. Leaning against the pillows he can push in deeper: imagine Harold watching him from the foot of the bed, waiting for John to get himself ready.

Women have done this for him: put on a show, exposed themselves, but all of this is new to John. Imagining Harold watching is a comfort, a point of familiarity he can grasp at. He imagines Harold's hand on his ankle, solid and warm driving his arousal even higher tightening every time John does something Harold likes. Three fingers in and John needs more, wants more, but doesn't have the supplies: doesn't have Harold. Muffling a frustrated growl in the pillow John finally closes his hand around his dick ready to get off.

He fucks his hand imagining Harold doing it for him, or even better: telling John what to do—or not to do. The thought of being told not to come while he's right there on the edge is tantalizing and new. John hasn't played this game before, hasn't wanted to play this game with anyone: too many power games in his life without bringing sex into it, and yet the thought is damn attractive. John trusts Harold to hold the leash, wants him to hold it tight, maybe choke him a little on occasion to keep him from spinning out of control and breaking. It's terrifying and exhilarating, the thought more than the sensations getting him closer and closer to the edge.

The phone rings just as his body tightens, just one more stroke needed to get himself off…"Yeah—?" He can't quit get his voice under control, but not picking up isn't an option. "Mr. Reese, would you be so kind to join me?" If Harold sounds strange, it's probably John's imagination. John shuts his arousal down, forces it away into the back of his mind, jumps into the cold shower.

He's half way to the library before he even bothers to wonder at the timing. The thought that Harold was watching, that they will have to talk about it now: the reality is bound to be less pretty than the fantasy. He steels himself for the confrontation that's bound to take place, hating the twisted part of him that points out that he's still loose and slick and maybe Harold will—

Bear is as happy to see him as usual meeting him in the hallway with a happy bark and John stops to return the greeting and avoid the confrontation just a little bit longer. Satisfied with the attention, the dog wanders off and John no longer has any excuse to avoid Harold. He steps into the room where Harold is waiting. The genius has his back to John when he comes in looking absorbed in his screens ignoring John's entrance completely. There is a new dog bright blue dog bed next to Harold's chair, only it isn't Bear's name on it.

The stitching on the side reads 'Mr. Reese' clear as day.    


End file.
